Inside Christiania, Europe's largest hippie commune where an open drug market is being ravaged by rising gang violence

James PasleyJun 5, 2023, 21:16 IST

Residents in a bar in Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

In 1971, a group of squatters took over a military base in Copenhagen and called their enclave "Christiania."
Their plan was to break away from Denmark and its laws, to stop living under a conventional property ownership model, and to legalize drugs.

For more than 50 years, Copenhagen has been home to Europe's largest hippie commune.

Freetown Christiania was formed in 1971 when about 150 squatters decided to leap a fence and take over a section of leafy military land that had been abandoned in the 1960s. They formed a commune, made their own laws, and legalized drugs.

In the decades since, countless governments have threatened and tried to end the commune, but Christiania is still going today. Its members even formed a foundation and bought the land with a bank loan in 2011.

But over the last few years, its semi-legal drug trade on "Pusher Street" has been taken over by gangs and serious drug dealers resulting in escalating violence. In May, Copenhagen's mayor offered to step in and close the drug market for good.

Here's how the commune has lasted so long and some of the challenges it's faced.

In September 1971, a group of about 150 artists, hippies, feminists and squatters took over a derelict military base at the edge of Copenhagen, Denmark, in an area called Christianshaven.

Christiania quarters in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

In September 1971, a group of about 150 artists, hippies, feminists and squatters took over a derelict military base at the edge of Copenhagen, Denmark, in an area called Christianshaven.

There was no single leader. They were just a group that wanted to live differently.

A gathering of Christiania residents in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

They were angry with the government, emboldened by student uprisings in Paris and in Denmark, and acting out in response to a housing crisis.

A student attacking the police in Paris during the May 1968 student uprising.Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone/Getty

They cut off access to roads, banned cars and liberated a leafy enclave that covered about 35 hectares of prime Copenhagen real estate. They called their commune "Christiania."

Residents in Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

They cut off access to roads, banned cars and liberated a leafy enclave that covered about 35 hectares of prime Copenhagen real estate. They called their commune "Christiania."

Their plan was to live inside Denmark but outside its laws—they wrote their own constitution, printed their own money, ended conventional property ownership and legalized drugs.

Residents share drinks in Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

Their plan was to live inside Denmark but outside its laws—they wrote their own constitution, printed their own money, ended conventional property ownership and legalized drugs.

The commune's guiding principle was simple—everything was allowed until it started to bother someone. One of its mottos was "Black sheep from all classes unite!"

A man raises his fist in 1976 inside Christiania.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

Early on, the police tried to clear the squatters out, but too many people were living in Christiania and no one wanted to leave. To keep the peace, the Danish government let them stay.

A group of people living in Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

Early on, the police tried to clear the squatters out, but too many people were living in Christiania and no one wanted to leave. To keep the peace, the Danish government let them stay.

In 1973, the government agreed to let the squatter have three years as long as they paid for electricity and water. The commune was labelled a "social experiment."

A man rides his horse through Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

The government and the commune continued to wrestle for decades. By 2010 it had received a dozen eviction notices. But, according to The Believer, legal delays and deadlocks often saved the commune.

A couple and their child and dogs inside Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

The government and the commune continued to wrestle for decades. By 2010 it had received a dozen eviction notices. But, according to The Believer, legal delays and deadlocks often saved the commune.

The number of residents grew to around 1,000. An office was set up to sort out tenancies and maintain buildings. Sewer lines were laid and rundown buildings were renovated.

People admire a mural inside Christiania in 2016.Frederic Soltan/Corbis/Getty

The number of residents grew to around 1,000. An office was set up to sort out tenancies and maintain buildings. Sewer lines were laid and rundown buildings were renovated.

Protocols that were made early on continue today. For instance, residents pay a standard monthly fee, no matter how big their home was, and all decisions—from garbage disposal to tenant applications—are made at monthly meetings where a majority vote is required.

A meeting inside Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

Protocols that were made early on continue today. For instance, residents pay a standard monthly fee, no matter how big their home was, and all decisions—from garbage disposal to tenant applications—are made at monthly meetings where a majority vote is required.

Over the years, more rules were enacted, too—like no violence, no gangs, no guns. Soft drugs like marijuana and hashish were allowed, but in 1970 hard drugs were banned.

A man smokes cannabis inside Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

Over the years, more rules were enacted, too—like no violence, no gangs, no guns. Soft drugs like marijuana and hashish were allowed, but in 1970 hard drugs were banned.

The commune soon had a reputation for its drug market, which is called "Pusher Street." The market reportedly only has two rules—no photographs and no hard drugs.

A symbol of the photography ban on Pusher Street in 2020.Stefano Guidi/Getty

But Christiania wasn't all parties and drugs. Families moved there. Lulla Forchhammer, a resident and mother, told the New York Times in 1996, "It's a paradise for children."

Kids inside Christiania in 1976.Francois Lochon/Gamma-Rapho/Getty

But Christiania wasn't all parties and drugs. Families moved there. Lulla Forchhammer, a resident and mother, told the New York Times in 1996, "It's a paradise for children."

Peter Vestergaard, another resident, told the Guardian in 2004, 'If you want something done here you can't call an electrician or a plumber. You do it yourself or find a friend to help. I came to Christiania because I wanted to become responsible for my own life."

A woman repairs her bike outside her house in Christiania in 2012.Jonathon Nackstrand/AFP/Getty

Peter Vestergaard, another resident, told the Guardian in 2004, 'If you want something done here you can't call an electrician or a plumber. You do it yourself or find a friend to help. I came to Christiania because I wanted to become responsible for my own life."

In 1989, the Danish government passed the "Christiania Law." This gave residents a legal right to live in Christiania.

A man celebrates a Christiania anniversary in 2006.Jens Noergaard Larsen/AFP/Getty

But even so, new governments continued to threaten the commune and the commune continued to hold its ground.

Child residents from Christiania protest new legislation in 2004.Keld Navntoft/AFP/Getty

Things came to a head in 2011 when the government made the commune an ultimatum—either buy the land or someone else would. The commune managed to raise funds and get a bank mortgage and it has since been run by a foundation.

Inside Christiania in 2019.Oscar Gonzalez/NurPhoto/Getty

Things came to a head in 2011 when the government made the commune an ultimatum—either buy the land or someone else would. The commune managed to raise funds and get a bank mortgage and it has since been run by a foundation.

It's become one of Denmark's most popular tourist destinations, with hundreds of thousands of people visiting each year.

Tourists in Christiania in 2019.Ole Jensen/Getty

Other than social services, hospitals and schools, it's pretty much self-sufficient. There are shops, kindergartens, restaurants and cafes. This a local grocery store inside the commune from 2012.

A woman works at a local grocery store inside Christiania in 2012.Jonathon Nackstrand/AFP/Getty

Other than social services, hospitals and schools, it's pretty much self-sufficient. There are shops, kindergartens, restaurants and cafes. This a local grocery store inside the commune from 2012.

But it's not perfect. The requirement to reach a consensus for every issue has caused headaches for some residents. Decisions are often slow to reach, if reached at all.

Residents inside Christiania talking in 2016.Uffe Weng/AFP/Getty

But it's not perfect. The requirement to reach a consensus for every issue has caused headaches for some residents. Decisions are often slow to reach, if reached at all.

The way it enforces its rules has also been criticized. Because Copenhagen's police are not welcome, residents have taken things into their own hands.

Police raid Christiania in 2014.Nils Meilvang/AFP/Getty

But the most overt issue is its drug culture. Christiania is a desirable location because it's the only place in the country where drug sales are tolerated, if not legal.

Signs of the drug culture in Christiania, circa 1990.Romano Cagnoni/Getty

But the most overt issue is its drug culture. Christiania is a desirable location because it's the only place in the country where drug sales are tolerated, if not legal.

In response, the police, who previously turned a blind eye to the drug trade, began to raid Pusher Street. By 2016, the police estimated the drug trade made $150 million in sales each year.

Police raiding Christiania in 2016.Aleksander Klug/NurPhoto/Getty

In response, the police, who previously turned a blind eye to the drug trade, began to raid Pusher Street. By 2016, the police estimated the drug trade made $150 million in sales each year.

In response Copenhagen's mayor Sophie Hæstorp Andersen told a local newspaper in May that crime had reached, "a level we neither can nor want to deal with."

Copenhagen Mayor Sophie Hæstorp Andersen in 2022.Ole Jensen/Getty

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Inside Christiania, Europe's largest hippie commune where an open drug market is being ravaged by rising gang violence

In September 1971, a group of about 150 artists, hippies, feminists and squatters took over a derelict military base at the edge of Copenhagen, Denmark, in an area called Christianshaven.

There was no single leader. They were just a group that wanted to live differently.

They were angry with the government, emboldened by student uprisings in Paris and in Denmark, and acting out in response to a housing crisis.

They cut off access to roads, banned cars and liberated a leafy enclave that covered about 35 hectares of prime Copenhagen real estate. They called their commune "Christiania."

Their plan was to live inside Denmark but outside its laws—they wrote their own constitution, printed their own money, ended conventional property ownership and legalized drugs.

The commune's guiding principle was simple—everything was allowed until it started to bother someone. One of its mottos was "Black sheep from all classes unite!"

Early on, the police tried to clear the squatters out, but too many people were living in Christiania and no one wanted to leave. To keep the peace, the Danish government let them stay.

In 1973, the government agreed to let the squatter have three years as long as they paid for electricity and water. The commune was labelled a "social experiment."

The government and the commune continued to wrestle for decades. By 2010 it had received a dozen eviction notices. But, according to The Believer, legal delays and deadlocks often saved the commune.

The number of residents grew to around 1,000. An office was set up to sort out tenancies and maintain buildings. Sewer lines were laid and rundown buildings were renovated.

Protocols that were made early on continue today. For instance, residents pay a standard monthly fee, no matter how big their home was, and all decisions—from garbage disposal to tenant applications—are made at monthly meetings where a majority vote is required.

Over the years, more rules were enacted, too—like no violence, no gangs, no guns. Soft drugs like marijuana and hashish were allowed, but in 1970 hard drugs were banned.

The commune soon had a reputation for its drug market, which is called "Pusher Street." The market reportedly only has two rules—no photographs and no hard drugs.

But Christiania wasn't all parties and drugs. Families moved there. Lulla Forchhammer, a resident and mother, told the New York Times in 1996, "It's a paradise for children."

Peter Vestergaard, another resident, told the Guardian in 2004, 'If you want something done here you can't call an electrician or a plumber. You do it yourself or find a friend to help. I came to Christiania because I wanted to become responsible for my own life."

In 1989, the Danish government passed the "Christiania Law." This gave residents a legal right to live in Christiania.

But even so, new governments continued to threaten the commune and the commune continued to hold its ground.

Things came to a head in 2011 when the government made the commune an ultimatum—either buy the land or someone else would. The commune managed to raise funds and get a bank mortgage and it has since been run by a foundation.

It's become one of Denmark's most popular tourist destinations, with hundreds of thousands of people visiting each year.

Other than social services, hospitals and schools, it's pretty much self-sufficient. There are shops, kindergartens, restaurants and cafes. This a local grocery store inside the commune from 2012.

But it's not perfect. The requirement to reach a consensus for every issue has caused headaches for some residents. Decisions are often slow to reach, if reached at all.

The way it enforces its rules has also been criticized. Because Copenhagen's police are not welcome, residents have taken things into their own hands.

But the most overt issue is its drug culture. Christiania is a desirable location because it's the only place in the country where drug sales are tolerated, if not legal.

In response, the police, who previously turned a blind eye to the drug trade, began to raid Pusher Street. By 2016, the police estimated the drug trade made $150 million in sales each year.

In response Copenhagen's mayor Sophie Hæstorp Andersen told a local newspaper in May that crime had reached, "a level we neither can nor want to deal with."